


Do us justice

by anastasiapullingteeth, demonsonthemoon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastasiapullingteeth/pseuds/anastasiapullingteeth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jehan and Grantaire first met, they were just kids, they had all the time in the world, and they could only think about how fast life was consuming them.</p><p>When they met again ten years later, they'd been playing adults for a while, had experienced the slowness of time and shared the same dream:</p><p>To get a fresh start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Today marks one year since Meeni and I first met and, to celebrate it, we wanted to share with y’all this fic we’ve been working on. We hope you like it!

_October 2015._

 

Grantaire parked outside the school with a grunt. He looked out of the window of his old green Geo Metro, distracting himself with the view, trying to avoid as much as he could the imminent interview.

The school was, quite frankly, horrible from the outside. The big gray walls were depressing, only barely brightened by the big letters in red that let the students know what building they were at. If he still painted, he’d put a mural outside the library. Maybe something abstract, human figures dancing on the wall, their long limbs intertwined as part of a whole universe… _If_ he still painted.

He walked out of the car, putting aside his pathetic youthful dreams, and walked to the enormous door, adjusting the only tie he’d ever owned in his life. He got this, he tried to convince himself. They were looking for someone who teached Philosophy, and he was running out of Mac and Cheese to eat; it was a win-win deal.

"Don’t fuck this up, you really need the job. Don’t fuck this up…" he repeated under his breath, stopping only when he was in front of the principal’s office. The old man wouldn't hire someone who swore in the school’s hallways, would he?

The lovely lady outside the office beckoned for him to take a seat. He lazily folded the corners of the sheet of paper he had on his lap, forgetting for a moment it was his resume and tapping his foot absently on the white floor. Twenty minutes later, they were ready to receive him.

Professor Jean Valjean, the principal, was a mature man with gray hair on his sideburns. The corners of his eyes and mouth had expression lines, accentuated when he smiled at Grantaire after asking him to sit down. On the desk in front of him, was a picture of him with a young woman with long blonde hair. He seemed like a really nice guy.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, monsieur Grantaire," the man said. "I’m afraid we have a critical situation at hand."

"What’s the… situation?" he asked, suppressing a snort at the title.

"Our Philosophy teacher, madame Mayette, has suffered from some complications on her pregnancy. The doctors recommended complete bed rest, for what she was forced to leave the school yesterday."

"Oh."

"You’d be covering her classes for about five months, if you’re willing to accept."

Substitute teacher, the only thing lower than being a high school teacher. He hadn’t expected this to be a temporary job, but it was the only option he had. That or he could really start to live on Bahorel’s couch. He gave Valjean his most shiny smile, pretending this was like Christmas to him. “It’d be a pleasure, monsieur.”

"Great, that’s fantastic." Valjean shook his hand. "Go with Fantine to finish the procedure. She’ll give you your schedule and everything you’ll need. See you tomorrow morning, monsieur Grantaire."

"Thank you so much, monsieur. Until then."

He walked out of the office a few minutes later, loosening his tie and running a hand through his black curls, messing them up in the process, ready to pay a visit to Bahorel and steal some beers from his friend's fridge. He turned around a corner when he saw something that caught his attention, or rather someone.

A small man with big brown eyes walked passed him on the hallway, his attention focused on the book he held between his hands. He looked young, though he must have been a teacher, if the clipboard under his arm was anything to go by. Grantaire stopped short, thinking he might be hallucinating.

The man reminded him of someone. A skinny boy he’d met at high school and who he hadn’t heard of in probably ten years. Jehan, that was his name, Grantaire remembered it clearly, as if not a single day had passed. Could it be possible he was here too?

His gaze followed him until he entered what seemed to be a classroom. Grantaire considered coming back over his steps and peeking inside, just to be sure the stranger wasn’t him, but dismissed it right away. It was impossible that that man was in fact Jehan. He’d be somewhere else right now, having the time of his life, away from this forgotten town. Grantaire rolled his eyes at himself and went back to his car; the smiling face of certain young boy unwilling to abandon his mind, not even when he was lying on his bed that night.

 

*******

 

_September 2005._

 

Excitment is a hard thing to hold onto. Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire knew this, but was still disappointed when he found out that all the excitment he'd had for his last period of the day - a creative writing workshop - had faded during the 7 hours he'd already spent mindlessly listening to boring teachers. He sighed, bag thrown across his shoulders and hair tied in a low and careless ponytail.

The class was being given on the third floor, which meant he was nearly out of breath when he entered the room. After one look at the view - a small orchard on the property next to the school - he sat down close to a window, watching the door as other students slowly trickled in. Finally, the teacher - a middle-aged woman with purple glasses and a big smile - closed the door, officially starting the class.

Like in every first lesson of the year, she began by explaining what the content of the course would be, which goals they were meant to achieve, which themes they were gonna focus on. Jehan kept his eyes fixed on her the whole time, but without really seeing anything of her face.  
"Pick up a pen," she finally said. Jehan blinked. "Pick up a pen and a piece of paper and write something. I don't care what."

Jehan finally smiled. There were only fifteen minutes left to the class, but at least they were finally doing something. Tapping his pencil against his lips a few times, he looked around the class. There were approximately 15 students in it. A group of three girls who had evidently come together, talking in hushed tones, more isolated people of whom a few were looking around just as Jehan was, and at the back of the class, one of the only three other boys, playing with one of his black curls like this was the most boring moment of his entire life.

"Here for the credits," Jehan immediately thought with a smile. Still, he kept on watching him for a few seconds. The boy wasn't sprawled across his chair and desk like most of the people who didn't want to come to class were. Quite the opposite, his legs were closed tightly and his elbows almost touching, one hand under his chin. He wasn't taking any space more than necessary, and seemed oddly focused on something unseen.

Jehan turned back to his sheet and started writing something, anything, not really caring about what was the point he was trying to carry across, but relishing in the feeling of sentences forming under his fingers.

Writing had been his passion since the end of primary school, an accessible outlet to everything he was feeling when the world sometimes seemed too hostile to accept his thoughts. It gave him goosebumps, to know he wasn't alone in this, that he could come to a class and find other people that were interested in writing, didn't find it boring or weird. Of course, even some people in the workshop seemed to find it boring or weird - he looked back at the dark-haired boy at the back of the class, who had pulled out a sheet of paper, but seemed to be doodling on it instead of writing - but he would deal with that later.


	2. Chapter 2

_October 2015._

 

Jehan rolled his eyes and stifled a curse at all the red staring up at him. He started counting, wondering what trick he could use to give the student at least some points. He wasn't the type of teacher that gave out many favours, but this start of the year was terrifying and called from some effort on both parts. Teaching Latin conjugation to first years was getting more and more difficult each year and, at 25, Jehan could already feel his first falling hairs.

He picked up another copy, and managed to take 5 whole minutes just to decypher the name of the student. When the door opened with a crash, he welcomed the distraction and immediately raised his head.

A young man had just entered the room, facing the side-wall where the lockers were. He quickly pulled a key out of a battered leather bag and took out a stack of sheets from his locker.

Jehan smiled. The other teacher was definitely in a rush, probably already late to whatever class he was giving. As he rummaged through his bag to fit everything in, Jehan paid more attention to his appearance. He was wearing a collared shirt, as every male teacher was required to, but far from Jehan's floral patterned one, it was simple and white. A blazer was draped over it, paired with a pair of jeans. The whole was crowned by a mop of dark curls that made Jehan's fingers twitch. Something twisted in his stomach, and he carefully unfurled the fingers that had closed too tightly around his red pen to stare at the man now turned in his direction. Memories were flooding Jehan's mind, and his jaw dropped. The feeling seemed to be mutual, as the other man quickly closed his mouth, his hands now clenched on the strap of his bag.

"G... Grantaire?" Jehan's voice was timid, barely audible. He couldn't help it. The situation was utterly confusing to him. Grantaire was the last person he had expected to meet in the teacher's room of a school, more so the school he was working in. Why was he here, in this forgotten town? Grantaire had wanted out, always, he was supposed to be away, following his dreams and visions. He couldn't be back. "Grantaire, is that you?"

The other man swallowed visibly and nodded. Jehan stood up, his pen dropping to the ground with a clatter. He quickly walked to Grantaire and put his arms around him, his head falling on his shoulder with the ease of habit. Grantaire stiffened, then relaxed slightly, returning the embrace. Jehan looked up, and took a step backwards. "Sorry. I just..." He bit his lips, looking down at his feet. "I never expected to see you again." He smiled as he raised his head again. Grantaire tried to return the gesture.

Jehan took the time to contemplate the face of his old friend. It was familiar, the same dark curls, the same green eyes, the slightly crooked nose. It was also perfectly alien, a scar on the side of his chin that wasn't there before, a bit of stubble covering it, when he used to always be clean-shaven. Without thinking, Jehan ran a hand through his hair.

"You cut it." Grantaire pointed out.

Jehan smiled, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yeah... It... It's easier for job interviews." Being confronted to Grantaire like that made him realise all the ways in which he himself had changed. Not only his hair, that used to fall below his shoulderblades and was now cut above his ears. Looking down at himself, he saw generic clothes, an adult like everyone else, despite having claimed all his adolescence that he wanted to be different. He shaked himself out of that line of thought. It was no time for that. "Why are you here?"

Grantaire scratched his neck, looking away. "I'm teaching. Philosophy. ... Well, actually, I'm replacing a teacher, whatever."

"You're... teaching... philosophy?" Jehan raised an eyebrow. He was having a hard time seeing Grantaire as a teacher, and especially with something such as philosophy. Not that he had never been interested in the subject! Quite the opposite, actually. His own opinions were so strong that he had a hard time reading any kind of essay without ruining it point by point.

Grantaire closed his eyes and put a hand in front of his face. "I know. I just... I needed the money, and I had this useless degree, so I applied and here I am. What about you?"

"Latin and Greek. For two years now."

Silence settled between them, heavy and somewhat uncomfortable. Then Grantaire looked down at his bag and panicked. "Shit. Shit shit shit. I need to go, I'm already late for a class. Damnit."

He made for the door, but Jehan quickly stopped him. "Wait. I'd like to talk to you? Later? After school, maybe?"

Grantaire nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'd like that too."

"I never changed my phone number. So if you still have it..."

Grantaire blinked, then smiled slowly. "Okay." He turned around and left, nearly running in the hallway.

With a sigh, Jehan sat back on the chair he had been occupying. He took a minute to look around for his red pen, before remembering that he had let it fall to the floor and picking it up. But instead of getting back to work, he let it rest on his bottom lip.

Memories were flooding his mind, memories that he had pushed back for years, not brave enough to erase them completely. He kept his eyes on the door, and it was only when another teacher opened it that he realised he hadn't moved in twenty minutes.

 

***

 

_September 2005._

 

Grantaire walked inside the classroom already feeling like someone had sucked out his soul. He hated that place, he hated the teacher and he hated his classmates. He considered walking back to the hallway and forget everything about the workshop, but couldn't afford another year wasted; he needed the credits if he wanted to graduate this time. That day, the teacher decided to make things even more unbearable, asking them to present their works in front of everybody; it’d be a insufferably long hour.

One by one, every student stood up in the front and read aloud their assignment for the class at large. It was the second week of the workshop, and they all still sucked at writing, but he really was no one to judge. He looked down at the sheet of paper on his desk with disgust. It was supposed to be a poem, but to him it just looked like a bunch of random words scribbled on the white surface. He took his pen in hand and doodled little faces in the margins, all in different levels of annoyance, barely paying attention to the real world around him.

Halfway through, Grantaire heard what could be considered the most horrendous poem in stock, full of cliches and cheesy words. He made a grimace of horror and looked up. The girl reading had impossibly big grey eyes, and gestured in every verse she read. Her face contorted with overreacting passion, as if she had managed to put into words the world’s greatest mystery and Grantaire couldn't decided if he wanted to roll his eyes, or burst out laughing.

He glanced at the rest of his classmates. They were mostly girls, clenching their hands above their chests, sighing with melancholy, almost at the verge of tears. What had he done to deserve this? Was this a punishment for that time he stole his girlfriend’s dad’s car?

There was a boy close to the window. He was listening attentively with his hands folded on the desk and his eyebrows knitted together; his strawberry blond hair was tied up in a messy bun on top of his head. Grantaire could only see a part of his face from where he was sitting, but the line that ran down his nose and the corner of his mouth slightly curved were enough to spark something inside him. Before Grantaire could think about it, he was drawing the boy’s face in his personal sketch book.

"Thank you, Michelle." Madame whatever-was-her-last-name said with a tight smile. "Go back to your seat. Who’s next?" she checked her list and Grantaire tensed up. "Prouvaire? Would you like to share your work?"

The boy next to the window stood up and Grantaire smiled. He now had a first-row seat to capture the boy's face. Figuratively. He was still sitting at the back. He took his pencil in hand, but the words coming out of the mouth he was trying to draw were captivating.

This boy talked about inner demons, melancholy and death; things Grantaire sometimes wanted to write about, but never dared to do so. He stared at nothing for a few seconds, letting himself be dragged by that dulcet voice, until no sound filled the room. Prouvaire went back to his seat, and Grantaire's gaze followed him on its own.

There was something about that Prouvaire kid that Grantaire couldn't quite identify. He was... different, in a way that made him almost enjoy being there. He completely forgot about the drawing and by the end of the class, found himself approaching the younger boy.

"Uhm, hey!" he said awkwardly. "Prouvaire, right? You probably don’t remember me, but I’m in the writing workshop with you. I’m Grantaire."

"I know who you are," the boy said, smiling fondly. "And call me Jehan, please."  
"Oh, okay... Anyways, I know this is super creepy but I just wanted you to know the poem you read today was quite something. Like, you really got talent."

"Thank you." He caught a stray strand of hair, and placed it behind his ear.

"Yeah, uhm," Grantaire mumbled, having a hard time to take his eyes away from him. "I mean, this place is shit, right? But you could almost make it bearable."

Jehan frowned and Grantaire got the feeling he'd said something wrong, especially after the young boy excused himself and walked away, leaving an astonished Grantaire gaping in the middle of the hallway, wondering why he cared so much he hadn’t said goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is chapter two! We really hope you liked it! Updates will continue to be approximately every month. We know it's a long time to wait for each chapter, but both Carolina and I ('m Meeni by the way) have other projects we're working on, as well as personal lives on the side. So thanks for your understanding!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're now on chapter 3... time is going fast, uh? I hope you're all enjoying this fic! Thanks for reading, it means so much to us.

_October 2015._

 

Grantaire had been expecting to see Jehan in the teacher’s room once his class was over. The lesson had gone a little awkward, some stupid kids trying to act rude and intimidating with the substitute, but he himself hadn't really been paying attention, busy still thinking of Jehan. The same smile, the same large eyes; the same warm and welcoming arms. He hesitated before opening the door, his hand a little shaky, but the young man wasn't there.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at one of the tables, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He scrolled down his contacts list until he found it; Jehan’s number was still in there. He’d never actually thought of calling him or anything, it just felt… right, having it as a reminder of what he once was, what they both were. Just staring at it during the long nights he couldn't sleep, trying to imagine where that boy could be, was enough to soothe him into sleep.

He tapped the phone against his lower lip, thinking. He couldn't call him right away; he probably was still in class, so he tucked it again in his jeans. He didn't call him until he was back at his apartment, worrying at his lip and hearing the ring on the other side of the line. When Jehan picked up, Grantaire almost dropped the phone.

"You still have it," said the young man on the other end, a smile audible in his voice.

"Hey. Uh, yes. Sorry I couldn’t wait for you, I had to do a few things."

"Don’t worry. I’m happy you called."

Grantaire sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the front door. This was so weird yet so comforting. “So… About that date… I mean, not a date, but, you know, go out and talk. Like friends.” Because they were still friends… Right?

"Is tomorrow okay for you? I know this place near the school-"

"Ah, ah. Leave it in my hands. I know the perfect place."

Jehan hugged him again when they saw each other after work the next day. Grantaire was starting to remember how it felt to have him between his arms... and he didn’t like it. Not because it wasn't pleasant, on the contrary, it felt exactly how it did back then and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He placed a hand on the back of Jehan’s head for a brief second and then walked him down the street to The Musain, the bar where Bahorel worked at.

"You’re gonna love it, trust me."

Bahorel was behind the counter that night; he stepped in front of it to greet Grantaire, crushing him into a tight hug. He was a few inches taller than him... Okay, he was _a lot_ taller than Grantaire and his thick arms were completely covered in tattoos. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair and tilted his head looking at Jehan.

"Hey, hi! ... Who are you?"

Jehan snorted and stretched his hand. "Jean Prouvaire."

"Bahorel. Wait, aren't you-"

"Yeah, okay. Now that we all know each other." Grantaire interrupted him. "A couple of beers, please?"

Bahorel saluted him and went back to his place. Jehan sat down at a near table, smiling broadly and eyes wandering around the bar. "It's really amazing," he said. "You were right."

"I'm always right."

They were back at that comfortable atmosphere between them, simply looking into each other's eyes, trying to communicate with more than words. Jehan smiled like he couldn't believe they were there and Grantaire understood the feeling. They both looked so different but so familiar at the same time, and Grantaire found himself replaying old memories inside his head while looking at the young man before him. It was a strange tension between knowing him from head to toe and not having the slightest idea of who he was.

When the staring was already too much, Jehan cleared his throat.

"So... A teacher. A _philosophy_ teacher."

"What can I say, life's a bitch."

"Yeah, I know... Where did you go after high school?"

Grantaire shrugged; this was his least favorite topic. "You know... Places... I somehow ended up in a college studying this shitty thing... and, well, that's pretty much the whole story."

"What happened with the painting? You were- _are_ really talented."

Grantaire lowered his beer on the table with a thud, probably with much force than was necessary, and sighed. "I don't know, Jehan. I don't know what the hell happened. I took the wrong path somewhere along the way, okay? Cut it out already."

Jehan frowned offended, but he just took a sip of his own beer. "I just thought… I don’t know, I thought you’d be somewhere else now, somewhere better" he practically whispered, taping his thumb on the cold glass.

"Why are you here anyway? Weren’t you supposed to be charming the entire world with your poetry? Sorry, but you never talked about being a teacher, either."

"Why are you saying all this?"

"Because you promised me you’d be amazing! All these years I thought that, well, at least Jehan’s doing fine. Of the two of us, we both knew if someone could make it, that’d be you… And yet, here we are."

Jehan’s eyes were filled with angry tears and Grantaire wanted to take his words back, but it was too late. The world around them was silent, but only Bahorel was looking at them behind the counter with a deep frown on his face. Grantaire stood up with a jolt, stumbling against a table, and strode to the front door clenching his fist. If only he could keep his mouth shut.

 

***

 

_October 2005._

 

“I don’t like you.”

"You don't _like_ me?"

It was another last period on a Thursday, and the bell had just rang the end of another writing workshop. The hour had been spent working on the theory of rhyme and rhythm, which had only left a daze of twelve-syllables sentences in Jehan's mind. He was standing in front of the dark-haired kid's desk, Grantaire's desk.

"I don't like the way you act. Like you don't give a shit. Like, because you don't give a shit, others shouldn't give a shit."

Jehan knew his words were harsh, but couldn't help it. Grantaire looked perplexed, maybe even alarmed. There was some kind of light in his eyes - that were apparently a brownish sort of green, Jehan noticed - like the reflection of headlights in a deer's.

"You mock those girls for their poems - which aren't masterpieces, I'll grant you that - but what have _you_ written?"

Grantaire looked down at his hands. The thought that he was going too far vaguely occured to Jehan, but he couldn't stop.

"Your assignments always barely hit the word limit, and you never try to put anything of yourself in them. You shouldn't be the one laughing here."

"Who cares?" suddenly replied Grantaire, standing up. "Who cares if my assignments are shit? I don't!"

Miss Colin, their teacher, was packing her bags, making enough noise to have them understand it was time to leave the room. Jehan didn't think, just grabbed Grantaire's hand and started to pull him outside. The other boy only had time to grab his bag before he was forced to follow.

"I know you only took this class because you needed a full schedule. Everyone can read it on your face. But I also know that you could do better."

Grantaire snickered, which made Jehan's vision go red as he dropped his classmate's hand. They were now standing in the hallway which, fortunately, was nearly empty, since nobody else was willing to stay at school for longer than 5 minutes after 8 hours of class.

"I'm serious!"

"You don't know me." Grantaire's voice had become low, the dark tones in it nearly sending chills down Jehan's back. He was starting to lose his temper too. "You don't know shit about me so get off your high horses. Maybe the fact that I need a stupid writing workshop to ensure that my year gets validated is proof of how bad I am at doing things!"

"You can draw," Jehan said. "I saw it. You're always drawing, in class."

Grantaire seemed to suddenly calm down, like a balloon deflating. He looked away.

"You've got to have something to say about the world, if you keep drawing it like that. There's got to be something in you."

Grantaire laughed. Then started walking. Jehan followed him towards the school's exit, not caring what the other boy thought of that.

"I imagined you nicer. More... delicate," said Grantaire without turning towards Jehan. "You're kind of an asshole, in the end."

"I just want you to take things seriously." He sighed, closing his eyes for a second. "Most of the poems written in this class are bad. And I'm not saying mine are better, because I just happen to be the one who's practiced writing for the longest time and that wouldn't be fair. But at least the lovesick girls writing about their crushes put something of them in their texts. Hélène's free-verse exercise last week? It was good."

Grantaire nodded, although he was frowning in confusion.

"What I'm saying is... most of them do try to write something good. But then there's you. Your rhythm is good and you can use figures of speech easily, but what you write... There's nothing about you in it. You describe a scene, put some microwaved feelings into it and you think it's gonna be good enough, but it's not."

"Microwaved feelings?"

Jehan frowned. "... I didn't know how to explain it. It's like... They're not fake feelings per se. They're just... tasteless. Like something good that was ruined in the microwave?"

Grantaire laughed softly at that. When he looked at Jehan again, there was a genuine smile on his face. "That was weird, but still kind of a good analogy."

"So?"

"So what?"

They had left the school building and were now standing near the front gate. Jehan stopped walking.

"Why don't you write about things you actually feel?"

Grantaire didn't answer right away, which made Jehan fear that he had finally gone too far. He hadn't really had a plan, when he had started talking to the dark-haired boy. He had acted on impulse, thinking that, since Grantaire had seemed to be willing to talk to him after he had read his last poem, he would maybe listen. Jehan didn't really know why he was even getting involved in this whole thing. He could have easily done as he had always had, which meant ignoring other people in his class and let them live their lives as they let him live his. But something about Grantaire made him think that it wouldn't be as easy this time. Was it because he desperately wanted to enjoy the writing workshop? Because he was intrigued by his classmate's drawings? Because there was something in the way he held himself that screamed "I have secrets, discover them"?

Jehan didn't know exactly, but here he was.

"Maybe I don't want other to see what's inside me. Maybe even _I_ don't want to see what's inside me."

Jehan opened his mouth, trying to say something, but he couldn't find the words. He tried to reach towards Grantaire, unconsciously, but the other boy took a step back, looking away once again.

"I'm sorry," Jehan ended up saying lamely.

"Don't be," replied Grantaire. "Why should you? I don't really care."

"You should."

Grantaire turned away, hands stuffed inside his pockets. "Yeah. Whatever."

Jehan didn't think it was his place to follow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, guys. Real life got in the way. Hope you still enjoy this chapter!!!

_October 2015._

"You're gonna use the thing with all the marbles again, then?" Jehan asked. He was standing in the teachers' room, waiting for his friend Feuilly - a colleague teaching Physics and basic Chemistry - to pick up some copies from his locker.

"The thing with the marbles," Feuilly replied with a raised eyebrow.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. It's just that you're usually more eloquent than that." Jehan crossed his arms in a challenging stance at that. "And, yes, I'm gonna use the _thing with the marbles_ again, even though I nearly lost an eye to one of these last year. Danger comes with the job."

"Only when you're the one teaching," Jehan pointed out not-so-helpfully. He was feeling rather twitchy.

Feuilly punched him in the arm for his trouble. Considering that the ginger Physics teacher was four years older than Jehan, one would think that this could have hurt. It would be without noting the important fact that, despite his age, Feuilly was also a good two inches smaller than his friend, who himself wasn't the tallest person on earth.

The punch thus only made Jehan laugh.

Both friends picked up their bags and started walking towards the school's exit.

"Did something happen?" Feuilly asked, brown eyes full of seriousness. Jehan started to fidget with the strap of his bag, not answering immediately. "You seem... distracted these days. Not your usual self." They took a few more step together, in silence. Feuilly put his hand on Jehan's arm. "Jehan."

The younger man looked up, then down at his feet, then up again. "I met someone. A ghost from the past, you could say. I knew him in highschool, but then we lost touch and... well, now he's subbing for Sophie. You know, the philosophy teacher?"

"Oh. Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah."

Smartly noticing his friend's complete lack of desire to explain further, Feuilly dropped the conversation. "Want to go get a drink? My classes for tomorrow are already all prepared and I've got nothing to do."

"Sure, sounds great." He let Feuilly take the lead and find them somewhere to go to. It was one of Feuilly's quirks to be on some sort of insane quest for the best bar in town. They would try new ones every other week or so, exchanging comments on which features they liked best. "It should probably be sad, you know?"

"What?"

"Two grown men on a Thursday afternoon with nothing to do except getting a pint at a bar like we're still teenagers. I'm not complaining. But if we were book characters, this would be our pathetic beginning before the event that changed our lives forever."

"... I'm not sure if I should be offended or laughing."

Jehan shrugged. "Both?"

Feuilly chuckled at that, which made Jehan smile too. "Prouvaire, I can say with utmost solemnity that you are probably the most ridiculous person I know.

"I will accept the compliment as solemnly."

They both laughed at that, and continued to have a light-hearted conversation. This prevented Jehan from actually paying attention to where they were going. It was too late for any kind of unconspicuous protest when he finally recognised the street they were in. Sure enough, Feuilly stopped in front of an old wooden door that was all too familiar to Jehan. That was the bar Grantaire had taken him to just a few days earlier.

Jehan tried to find an acceptable excuse to head back towards the school (or in any other direction, really), but Feuilly quickly opened the door, leaving him no time. "I'm being ridiculous," the Latin teacher told himself, sounding unconvinced even in his thoughts. It was true, though. He was being ridiculous. Feuilly had just told him so. And it was simply a bar. What were the chances that Grantaire would be there again? And even if he was, it was just -

"Grantaire!" came a loud voice from the counter on the other side of the room.

Jehan stopped in his tracks. Sure enough, Grantaire was there, sitting on a barstool. The dark-haired man was apparently battling with his barman friend - Bahorel, wasn't it? - for access to a folded sheet of paper.

Bahorel had apparently noticed Jehan and Feuilly coming in, for he raised his eyes and dropped his hand.

"Hey! Isn't that..."

Grantaire turned around. "Jehan?!" Bahorel used the moment of distraction to snatch the paper out of his friend's hand, which made Grantaire turn back to him so fast he almost fell off his stool. It was worth it since, after a few more seconds of vaguely acrobatic wrestling, he managed to get the sheet of paper back and immediately slipped it inside his bag.

Jehan stood immobile during the whole thing. Feuilly was also standing next to him, confusion clear on his face. The few other customers present had looked up from their respective drinks. "What just happened?" asked the Physics teacher. "Do you know them?"

Jehan nodded slowly. "Hi, Grantaire."

Now that he and Bahorel had calmed down, Grantaire turned back more slowly and met Jehan's eyes. "Hi," he said, with the tiniest hint of a smile.

"If it isn't Tiny Ginger!" Bahorel exclaimed, unconscious of the moment of soft silence he had just shattered to pieces.

With ease, Feuilly sat down on a stool, leaving space for Jehan between him and Grantaire, and smiled. "And if it isn't Rude Bartender! How lucky I am!"

"You don't even know. What can I get you both?"

For a moment, Jehan was astounded. But he quickly found his footing again. "I'll take a beer, thanks."

With a finger in Jehan's direction, Feuilly added "And the same for me."

Bahorel turned around to get the drinks ready, while Feuilly followed him with his eyes. Which left Jehan and Grantaire awkwardly sitting next to each other in total silence.

"Look, I'm..."

"Sorry I just..."

Jehan smiled as they both started and stopped talking at the same time. He made a quick gesture with his hand to tell Grantaire to just go ahead.

"I just wanted to say... I guess I wanted to say that I'm sorry about last time. I didn't want to react like that. It was out of line."

Jehan sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. He took the beer Bahorel handed him with a smile.

"It's okay. I guess... I guess I was kind of out of line too. I guess we both had expected something else of us meeting again."

Grantaire nodded and stared at his hands for a few seconds. It left time for Jehan to look at him and try to define once again all the little changes the man had gone through. How had he gotten that small scar on his face? When had he decided that teaching 14 year old kids about Plato was something he could endure wearing collared shirts for?

"You're messing with me," Bahorel exclaimed in a loud voice, making Jehan turn slightly towards him. "I refuse to believe this."

"I assure you. You wouldn't believe what kids can come up with. Sadly, I don't have a whole transcript of the conversation, but if you're interested in mermaids, I can send you a list of the arguments that were used."

"Dude. Why do you even ask? I'll give you my e-mail, just a sec..." The brown-haired man took out a napkin from under the bar and quickly wrote a few words on it with a ball-pen. Feuilly smiled as he pocketed the object, and the two of them got back to their light-hearted banter.

When he turned back towards Grantaire, Jehan noticed that he had been staring at their friends too. The Latin teacher raised his eyebrows and motioned towards Feuilly and Bahorel with his head. Grantaire replied by rolling his eyes to the sky.

They both smiled, unconsciously bringing their bodies an inch closer to each other.

*****

_October 2005._

Grantaire looked down at his notebook again and frowned; Prouvaire was right, it was awful. It was so standard, so empty, like the kind of things people wrote in cheap greeting cards. He threw his head back, hitting the brick wall and suppressing the urge to rip off the paper before him. He'd burn that notebook if it wasn't for the stupid credits - he wouldn't even be there if it wasn't for that exact reason. He glanced at the door when he heard it cracking open and saw Prouvaire coming through it. They locked eyes for a brief second, until the other boy looked away; he seemed embarrassed, but Grantaire couldn't really think of why.

The words he'd said to him the last time were still burned in his brain, painfully clear even when he tried not to think about them. The worst part wasn't that someone like him had said it, or that they, as cruel as they'd sounded, were true. The worst part was that, for a second, it seemed like he cared. For him and what he wanted. It was a strange feeling, that a complete stranger seemed so preoccupied for him. Because, to be honest, any of the girls were more worthy of his time. He'd said it himself: they tried. It still sucked, but at least they tried. They wanted to learn. They were passionate. Grantaire was none of that. It’d been a long time since he had stopped being that person (and what Prouvaire did not consider was that nothing Grantaire did would mean anything).

Prouvaire shifted in his seat a few rows away and Grantaire eyed him through his dark lashes; he wondered since when he'd become so aware of the other boy's presence: his movements, the way his back and neck straightened like he owned the place. And somehow he did. He'd been born to do this, it came naturally to him the same way birds are made to sing. He still needed practice, that much was true, he still wasn't quite there yet, but was closer than anyone in the room could ever be; this was his sanctuary and they were all but mere witnesses.

Grantaire rummaged through his things inside his worn out backpack, looking for his sketch book and a pencil, yearning to capture the image inside his head. However, above all this nonsense, he was now submerged in an artist's block - even though he would never consider himself an "artist"- of which he seemed unable to break free. He drew in a breath instead and closed his eyes at the exact moment Miss Colin entered the room.

"Good afternoon, class. Hope you've had a wonderful day so far." She said cheerfully, stepping in front of her desk with a bright smile. "Today is reading day, but we’re going to do things a little differently this time. Could you all rearrange your desks into a circle around the room, please?"

Grantaire groaned and rolled his eyes; he was too tired for this. The entire class came to their feet and soon the place was filled with the sound of moving furniture, chairs and tables being dragged on the floor. Grantaire didn't even move, he was already against the wall, but he did raise up his eyebrows to his hairline when he saw Prouvaire pushing his desk towards him, settling himself right beside his chair but avoiding his eyes entirely. Grantaire didn't get this guy at all.

"Okay! So now, who wants to begin?" Silence. "Aurélie, could you please read us your work? Then we can go on as clock hands."

After Prouvaire's ranting about his lack of comprise, Grantaire had made a promise of keeping his opinions to himself. He thought he could do it, it should have been easy to just keep his eye-rolling and offended snorts to a minimum, to maintain a deadpan expression on his face - eyes stuck on the opposite wall and mouth tight shut -, but somehow the task had become a lot harder now that the young boy was sitting next to him. The thought of having to prove this kid with enormous brown eyes that he could indeed be better suddenly crossed his mind, but he shook it off immediately. Even so, he had to admit he felt a little nervous around him. Last time it was like he could see through Grantaire, like he already knew the things he was trying to hide, as if he could read the lies he’d repeated to himself over the years until he believed them completely. If Prouvaire could _see_ him, what hope did he have left?

But then happened what Grantaire had never thought possible. After the seventh - or was it the tenth - acrostic poem in a row, using constructions as old as poetry itself ("your eyes are two sapphires" or some shit like that), Prouvaire turned to look at him and rolled his eyes. Yes. Prouvaire rolled his eyes. At him. Grantaire had to bite back his laughter, instead huffing an undignified snort louder than he intended, a little surprised at the small smile he got from the other boy. He ripped the corner of a sheet of paper from his notebook and wrote down _BUSTED!_ , folded it messily and put it on Prouvaire's leg under the table, throwing glances at Miss Colin, who wore a confused expression over her face.

A minute later, he got his answer:

_Couldn't help it._

Grantaire smiled to himself, thinking that he probably shouldn't be this excited about some illegal chatting with his desk neighbor. He really didn't care enough to stop, though, so he sent another message.

_you're not even sorry, are you?_

_… … No._

_I like you_

He hesitated before sending that one. It wasn't a lie, nor entirely true either, he barely knew the boy anyway, but it seemed a little out of place after Prouvaire had stated quite clearly that he wasn't pleased with his existence. He crossed out that one and wrote _you're funny_ instead. It was a safer yet still honest option. He sent it, not really expecting an answer.

After a minute, he felt a hand ghosting his leg. He looked down and found the piece of paper with a single line written on it: _I think you're okay yourself, too._ He lifted his head, his eyes fixed on Jehan, and he couldn't stop himself from returning the small smile that was on the other boy's lips. He felt a wave of what could be easily described as butterflies, so he immediately looked back down at his lap; they shared more of those little smiles during the rest of the lesson.


End file.
